Jordan's flight left today at 5, and I've been moping around ever since listening to some mixtapes he made for me and updating this blog. It's been wonderful seeing my boyfriend and sharing my life here with him, and I miss him already. But just to recap what we've been doing for the past two weeks:
-Boutique de Libros (and lots of other bookstore browsing and coffee-drinking)
-petting kitties in the Botanical Gardens
-drinking mate in parks
-eating a lot of steak/empanadas/pizza
-Recoleta Cemetary, National Library
-River Plate football game
-Peruvian food in Abasto
-El Ataneo
-San Telmo/downtown
-dinner with my hostfamily
-he came to teach English with me one day and the kids thought he looked like Ron Weasley from Harry Potter
-going to see Villa Diamante
-hanging out with my friends
-the Borges Trail*
Today we woke up and sat in a park in Palermo Viejo for awhile sipping mate, then went too a coffee shop down the street and read (Cronopios and Famas). We got lunch in a little dingy street parilla and then there was nothing left to do but go back to the hostel and wait for a cab to come take him to the airport.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
la Ciudad Oculta
Backstory: I've been volunteering at a community center near Villa 15 (in Villa Lugano) for several months now. Twice a week I make the hour and a half commute to teach kids (ages 6-16) English, and despite the distance and the potential danger of going down there, it's been such a positive, fulfilling experience. I really love those kids-they're so loving and sweet, unspoiled and so eager to learn. American children in comparison are such brats, and it kills me that these children have nothing, not even a decent teacher. I'm sure you can imagine how awkward and unorganized I am, especially trying to explain complex English grammar in Spanish!
Anyway, you can read more about what Centro Conviven, Villa 15 (la Ciudad Oculta) and about the kids here:
It's hard to know that these children come from some of the world's worst slums, away from the eyes of visitors and most people who live in Buenos Aires. I thought I knew what it was like, and I thought I wasn't sheltered. I've seen pictures and I've done lots of research and I spend my Wednesdays and Thursdays teaching just a few blocks away, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being inside the villas, an experience that shook me deeply, and almost tore me apart. To be completely honest, I was afraid. Despite everything that I knew, the sense of panic overcame me like a cold punch in the stomach when I'd realized last Wednesday that I'd missed my bus stop and the 141 was passing through the villas: one side the soul-less gray monoliths of bombed-out government projects and the other the familiar stacks of cheap materials that formed an endless shantytown. Nearly in tears, I told the bus driver I was supposed to get off on Eva Peron and how did I get back? He sighed, stopped the bus and told me to get off, cross the street, and walk a few blocks and take the 141 back. Here? I asked, eying the villas. Is it...safe? Get off, he snapped. So I did. And I crossed the street and walked the two blocks and tried not to look conspicuous. And then I waited. Looking around, despite the ugly appearance of the buildings and the dirty streets and stray dogs and shady characters, I realized no one was staring, or even remotely seemed to be aware that I was "out of place." Still, the pit in my stomach grew as I took in the sight of such much poverty and human misery. The second I saw the 80 bus approaching the stop I was overcome with such relief, remembering vaguely that it stopped near the Center and being so desperate to get out of there. I jumped on and threw my money in the slot and relaxed, until I realized a few blocks later the bus was turning left on Eva Peron, the opposite direction of the Center and deeper into the villas. The bus driver motioned for me to get off but I shook my head, and 20 minutes later (already late for class) I called Carmen (she's a director of the Center) explaining that I was lost and going the wrong way and was scared to get off and that I was so sorry I was late. She said it was ok but that the kids were waiting for me. I burst into tears. After hanging up everyone around me started asking where I was trying to go and patting my back and repeating "tranquila" (calm down). After some debate about how to get back and which bus to take, an old lady took my hand, got off with me, walked me across the road, wrote down directions, waited with me for the bus, and even tried to explain to the driver where I was going. She also asked if I needed coins (she was a saint). I got on the bus feeling better and thinking I was heading the right direction, but the driver shook his head and said I need to take the bus the other way. I couldn't believe it. I told him I'd just got off that one, etc, and with my mounting frustration and tears coming again I couldn't really explain myself. He said he'd tell me when to get off and to get out of people's way. After a bit he stopped at a corner, told me to get off and walk that way, waving in the direction of a street that passed through a shantytown. I had no choice. And I got off, took a look around, and started to run, running away from reality-- the ugly monster of poverty and all the things I have no power to change. I ran past stacked shacks and leering men and dingy shops and cows and graffiti and the whole miserable scene. I'd seen enough, and I wanted out.
I must have ran 10 blocks, I don't know, when I saw a YPF station and realized that I was around the corner from the Centro. Carmen was waiting for me outside, and I couldn't help but run into her arms and cry on her shoulder. She said nothing for a minute, because she knew what I'd seen. Then she asked if I was ok and if I'd been robbed, and the other volunteers asked the same. The kids were there, already working on homework together, and when I walked in they gave me hugs and kisses and yelled "Seño! We love you! You got lost? You're crazy!" and then hugged me some more and asked if it was tea time yet.
And they knew what I'd seen, and that I'd been afraid. I'm no martyr, I can't walk through the slums like Mother Theresa with my head held high, ignoring the ugly surroundings and embracing the poor and unwashed without fear and only love in my heart. I was scared of their reality--this is where they come from--and it slapped me in the face. And I never want to go back, I can't. I'm not brave enough to walk the same streets my students do, and they know that too. But maybe it's not the elephant in the room anymore, and maybe now we have an understanding and there's nothing more to be said about it. Life will go on, and I'll continue trying to give these kids something better. Crazy? Yes. For believing that I can help these children in some small way, and they can escape that hell like I had, and that there is hope for them. You have to believe this, or what hope is there at all? And who knows? Maybe I can. I am, after all, a lucky girl.
Anyway, you can read more about what Centro Conviven, Villa 15 (la Ciudad Oculta) and about the kids here:
It's hard to know that these children come from some of the world's worst slums, away from the eyes of visitors and most people who live in Buenos Aires. I thought I knew what it was like, and I thought I wasn't sheltered. I've seen pictures and I've done lots of research and I spend my Wednesdays and Thursdays teaching just a few blocks away, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being inside the villas, an experience that shook me deeply, and almost tore me apart. To be completely honest, I was afraid. Despite everything that I knew, the sense of panic overcame me like a cold punch in the stomach when I'd realized last Wednesday that I'd missed my bus stop and the 141 was passing through the villas: one side the soul-less gray monoliths of bombed-out government projects and the other the familiar stacks of cheap materials that formed an endless shantytown. Nearly in tears, I told the bus driver I was supposed to get off on Eva Peron and how did I get back? He sighed, stopped the bus and told me to get off, cross the street, and walk a few blocks and take the 141 back. Here? I asked, eying the villas. Is it...safe? Get off, he snapped. So I did. And I crossed the street and walked the two blocks and tried not to look conspicuous. And then I waited. Looking around, despite the ugly appearance of the buildings and the dirty streets and stray dogs and shady characters, I realized no one was staring, or even remotely seemed to be aware that I was "out of place." Still, the pit in my stomach grew as I took in the sight of such much poverty and human misery. The second I saw the 80 bus approaching the stop I was overcome with such relief, remembering vaguely that it stopped near the Center and being so desperate to get out of there. I jumped on and threw my money in the slot and relaxed, until I realized a few blocks later the bus was turning left on Eva Peron, the opposite direction of the Center and deeper into the villas. The bus driver motioned for me to get off but I shook my head, and 20 minutes later (already late for class) I called Carmen (she's a director of the Center) explaining that I was lost and going the wrong way and was scared to get off and that I was so sorry I was late. She said it was ok but that the kids were waiting for me. I burst into tears. After hanging up everyone around me started asking where I was trying to go and patting my back and repeating "tranquila" (calm down). After some debate about how to get back and which bus to take, an old lady took my hand, got off with me, walked me across the road, wrote down directions, waited with me for the bus, and even tried to explain to the driver where I was going. She also asked if I needed coins (she was a saint). I got on the bus feeling better and thinking I was heading the right direction, but the driver shook his head and said I need to take the bus the other way. I couldn't believe it. I told him I'd just got off that one, etc, and with my mounting frustration and tears coming again I couldn't really explain myself. He said he'd tell me when to get off and to get out of people's way. After a bit he stopped at a corner, told me to get off and walk that way, waving in the direction of a street that passed through a shantytown. I had no choice. And I got off, took a look around, and started to run, running away from reality-- the ugly monster of poverty and all the things I have no power to change. I ran past stacked shacks and leering men and dingy shops and cows and graffiti and the whole miserable scene. I'd seen enough, and I wanted out.
I must have ran 10 blocks, I don't know, when I saw a YPF station and realized that I was around the corner from the Centro. Carmen was waiting for me outside, and I couldn't help but run into her arms and cry on her shoulder. She said nothing for a minute, because she knew what I'd seen. Then she asked if I was ok and if I'd been robbed, and the other volunteers asked the same. The kids were there, already working on homework together, and when I walked in they gave me hugs and kisses and yelled "Seño! We love you! You got lost? You're crazy!" and then hugged me some more and asked if it was tea time yet.
And they knew what I'd seen, and that I'd been afraid. I'm no martyr, I can't walk through the slums like Mother Theresa with my head held high, ignoring the ugly surroundings and embracing the poor and unwashed without fear and only love in my heart. I was scared of their reality--this is where they come from--and it slapped me in the face. And I never want to go back, I can't. I'm not brave enough to walk the same streets my students do, and they know that too. But maybe it's not the elephant in the room anymore, and maybe now we have an understanding and there's nothing more to be said about it. Life will go on, and I'll continue trying to give these kids something better. Crazy? Yes. For believing that I can help these children in some small way, and they can escape that hell like I had, and that there is hope for them. You have to believe this, or what hope is there at all? And who knows? Maybe I can. I am, after all, a lucky girl.
I'm 12 years old
So I took another trip outside Buenos Aires, this time heading to Uruguay with folks from my program. Friday morning I woke up at exactly 7:30 am (we had to be at the port at 7:45), threw a few things in my backpack, and took the subway downtown at a full sprint. After waiting for train delays, getting lost and receiving several frantic phone calls from Gaby (our site director, I just barely managed to get through customs and catch the ferry for the hour and 1/2 ride to Colonia del Sacramento, a lovely old tourist town across the Rio de la Plata. Colonia was nice: we walked along the coast on cobblestone streets and looked at old buildings and enjoyed beautiful weather, but honestly, you can see the whole town in about 2 hours, then call it a day. There's nothing to do, so I acted up a bit out of boredom. I fell asleep on our bus tour, and goofed off during the walking part, throwing oranges and wrestling stray dogs and cracking up and being a little shit. Eventually we ditched the rest of the group and spent the better part of the afternoon taking stupid pictures and watching Family Guy in Spanish. And Uruguay's really expensive. Lunch, a sandwich called a chivito (a steak, cheese, egg, bacon, heartattack on a bun), fries, and a Coke was 200 Uruguayan pesos, about 50 Argentinean pesos. And we went out that night to a little restaurant/karaoke bar called "Colonia Rock," where we suffered through middle-aged tourists from BsAs belting out Enrique Iglesias. Gross. And again I opted to eat like a 12-year-old boy to save money (and did so all weekend: pizza and fries and hotdogs and soda, mmm!).
Colonia was quiet and very pretty, aka impossible to take a bad photo anywhere in the town. I did enjoy sitting on the terrace of our hotel for a bit, watching the sun set over the old church, listening to pigeons coo, and eating eucalyptus candy and cookies.
Obviously I was anxious to get to Mondevideo, and so thankfully the next morning we left early and bussed it down to the capital. Montevideo seemed happening enough, but oddly downtown was dead quiet. We wandered around the old part of the city and ate in an old market and battled mosquitoes, then basically called it a night. There were apparently elections that weekend and it's illegal to sell alcohol before, so all the bars and clubs were closed. We drank Cokes at dinner then retreated to our rooms to watch bad American television. The next day I slept during the entire bus tour of Montevideo-so dull. The ferry home was about 4 hours, during which my friend Austin and I had way too much mate and giggled the whole time.
So that was Uruguay...and I'm sure you can tell it was pretty boring. It was like I was a kid on one of those school trips, or family vacations to see historical things: unappreciative and sullen, looking for distractions and goofing off the whole time. But I'm not complaining. I mean, I've been to 3 countries in the past 4 months (and got my visa renewed until August!), and I got to hang out with my ASA friends and eat junk food. So looking back now I'm glad I went, and I least I got some rad pictures.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Rosario: ALL U CAN EAT
I took a day trip to Rosario with Graciela a few weeks ago, just to get out of Buenos Aires. My impression of the city was that it was beautiful and I wish I could've spent more time there under different circumstances. I bussed it up there with Graciela and her ladies group, and spent the better part of the day being pushed around by old people in a casino. Part of our ticket ($100 pesos) included a buffet lunch at Argentina's biggest casino, which was a weird place: hundreds of flashing machines, tables of craps and roulette, and a horrible sense that the whole operation was run by dirty government money. We met up with Graciela's daughter Marisol and her husband and baby son, and after cleverly stealing a few meal vouchers (the Porteña way-both of us went back through the line in disguises and grabbed a few for Marisol and Juan Manuel), the four of us tucked into a huge meal that included pasta, asado, salads, meat&cheese, desserts galore and bubbling cauldrons of what was called "ethnic food." So basically I lapsed into a meat coma just as we broke from the group, crammed ourselves into JM's tiny car, and took a city tour through downtown Rosario. Everything was so clean and white and beautiful, especially Boulevard Oroño. We stopped at a cafe right by the Monumento a la Bandera, which is really an impressive tribute to the Argentinean flag, and spent the afternoon drinking coffee and brandy and watching the Rosario Central game, and sweating because it was so hot. We went back to the Casino, loaded ourselves on the bus for another tour of Rosario, back through DT and to the Monumento to check out the nighttime lights and the eternal flame, and walk around the Cathedral. We drove around a bit before heading back to BsAs. Graciela's invited me to go on a similar trip with her to Cordoba...um, as long as there's a buffet included?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Las tres lenguas
So instead of writing another essay, here's a little guide to the Buenos Aires dialect, called Lunfardo (they technically speak Castellano, which is technically Spanish). Sorry some of this is rude, but I picked up these phrases and words by just listening and observing and asking a lot of questions (thanks to coco, wake, greg, and ñaño for their help)
Some vocabulary/expressions you won't learn in Spanish 209:
estar en pedo-to be drunk
pajero-jerk-off
cara de culo-literally, ass face, but it means to have a sour expression
Bolitas-offensive term for Bolivians
Paraguas-offensive term for Paraguayans
asqueroso-creepy; disgusting
me importa un carajo-I don't give a shit
boludo-idiot; also used among friends as a term of endearment ("che, boludo")
cojer-in other Spanish speaking countries, this word means to take, but in Argentina, it's definitely to fuck
Andate a la mierda-go to hell/go fuck yourself
Dejame a romper las bollas-get off my nuts
nene/nena-niño/niña
pancho-hot dog
frutilla-strawberry (fresa)
colectivo/bondi-bus
subte-subway
choclo-corn
anana-pineapple (piña)
boliche-club
birra-beer (cerveza)
shopping-centro comercial
ser buena onda-to be nice, give out good vibes
tragos-mixed drinks
gaseosa-a soft drink
plata-money
vivir en un nube de pedo-kind of like "you have your head in the clouds," but literally means "to live in a cloud of fart"
amigovio-"boy" friend (guy who you hook up with)
dar a luz-give birth
malparida: cursed birth
mandar fruta-bullshitting
Special skater/kid lingo:
porro-joint (of weed)
estar re quesudo-to be a jerk-off
che-kind of like starting a sentence with dude, to get someone's attention
parcero/parce-a friend, or a dude (this word comes from Colombia)
costilla-literally, "my rib," they use it to describe a very close friend
marico-faggot, but also used like boludo, an affectionate term for your friends
marrones-gay guys
tarado-retard
galan-player
shahor-I think it comes from a Jewish expression and means "outsider"
Me da paja-it's a pain in my ass
So these are just some of the expressions that I've picked up since living in Buenos Aires and hanging out with a bunch of skater dudes. (sorry Mom, but I did leave out some of the worse stuff)
Chau! (they say "ciao" instead of adios)
Some vocabulary/expressions you won't learn in Spanish 209:
estar en pedo-to be drunk
pajero-jerk-off
cara de culo-literally, ass face, but it means to have a sour expression
Bolitas-offensive term for Bolivians
Paraguas-offensive term for Paraguayans
asqueroso-creepy; disgusting
me importa un carajo-I don't give a shit
boludo-idiot; also used among friends as a term of endearment ("che, boludo")
cojer-in other Spanish speaking countries, this word means to take, but in Argentina, it's definitely to fuck
Andate a la mierda-go to hell/go fuck yourself
Dejame a romper las bollas-get off my nuts
nene/nena-niño/niña
pancho-hot dog
frutilla-strawberry (fresa)
colectivo/bondi-bus
subte-subway
choclo-corn
anana-pineapple (piña)
boliche-club
birra-beer (cerveza)
shopping-centro comercial
ser buena onda-to be nice, give out good vibes
tragos-mixed drinks
gaseosa-a soft drink
plata-money
vivir en un nube de pedo-kind of like "you have your head in the clouds," but literally means "to live in a cloud of fart"
amigovio-"boy" friend (guy who you hook up with)
dar a luz-give birth
malparida: cursed birth
mandar fruta-bullshitting
Special skater/kid lingo:
porro-joint (of weed)
estar re quesudo-to be a jerk-off
che-kind of like starting a sentence with dude, to get someone's attention
parcero/parce-a friend, or a dude (this word comes from Colombia)
costilla-literally, "my rib," they use it to describe a very close friend
marico-faggot, but also used like boludo, an affectionate term for your friends
marrones-gay guys
tarado-retard
galan-player
shahor-I think it comes from a Jewish expression and means "outsider"
Me da paja-it's a pain in my ass
So these are just some of the expressions that I've picked up since living in Buenos Aires and hanging out with a bunch of skater dudes. (sorry Mom, but I did leave out some of the worse stuff)
Chau! (they say "ciao" instead of adios)
Latin America is for Lovers?
I'm finally going to have to admit to myself, despite my belief that the stereotypical Latin male is/was a thing of the past, that machismo does indeed exist in Argentinean society. Of course, not all men here are patriarchal male chauvinist pigs blah blah blah. And what's more, many women find that attitude attractive. But I've found that there are subtle ways that men treat women that really don't jive with me. I once got yelled at by a Porteno guy (the whole rest of the night) for apparently "flirting" with another guy (it's a long story). Ugh the point is I was made to feel inferior for just being the way I am. Lame. Anyway, so there's just an example of my own culture shock when it comes to dealing with men here.
Since I've been posting really freaking long essays lately, I'm going to break down the dynamics of gender relations here in BsAs (from my observations)
-guys from other countries in Latin America (ahem, Venezuela) claim that Porteños are not your stereotypical "Latin Lovers" for these reasons:
-they're direct and up front about what they want (ie, if they see a hot girl in a club they're not going to waste time trying to "romance" her, they're just going to be like, "hey, come home with me"
-they don't really romance girls at all...they either pick up chicks at clubs (and go to sleezy hotels) or have sullen girlfriends that they seem to fight with/passionately make out with all the time
-these same Venezuelans claimed that Porteña girls go crazy over them because they perceive them to be the real so-called Latin lovers, because guys from BsAs are just, like, "so European" about it
I was NOT having it. Get lost, boludo.
-the Public Displays of Affection here are out of control-everywhere you look someone is sucking face...teenagers, couples on dates, old people...Anyway, at first it takes some getting used to, because hard-core making out in public back in the States is pretty much frowned upon (read, trashy). Maybe it's a subconscious act of liberation from years of sexually repressed society, or the fact that most young people still live with their parents and they don't have anywhere else to do it, or, they just want a little sugar/like to express their love all the time. Ok, I get that, no problem. But on the colectivo? Or in the sweaty subway during rush hour? Ew. Stop.
-Speaking of ew, men here definitely make it no secret if they think you're attractive. I'm not talking about just in clubs: on the streets, in the subte's, they'll make sure you know you're cute. But the thing is, when they whistle or say things like "preciosa!" or "que linda" or even "I'm going to think about you the rest of the day" (haha true story), they really mean no harm. Graciela says we should take it as a compliment. Uh...thanks? But she also said if they say offensive things, like call you a "puta" or something, then you should just ignore them and resist the urge to tell them to "andate a la mierda" (ie go fuck yourself, ahem, sorry mom). Speaking back will only encourage them. So I guess a little compliment from some rando on the street is nice every now and then, but sometimes I can't help but feel objectified (not that I get a lot of dudes trying to holla, jeez, but, many of my friends get lots of unwanted attention)
-ok, last one. This one's a little heavy: the A-word. Surprisingly, abortion's illegal here. Actually, maybe not so surprisingly. It is after all, a Catholic country. Still, with all the supposed sexual/social liberation I'm a little curious as to why Argentina hasn't lead the way in women's rights in Latin America. Looking around the streets on a typical day, there seem to be an abnormal amount of young mothers (and I mean young, early 20's) with a couple of kids in tow. Young dads too. While that's cute and all, Graciela explained to me that people aren't very smart about their sexuality (using birth control, etc) and so these young women end up getting pregnant before they've finished school, gotten jobs, or even moved out of their parents'. So the young couples could end up in a lot of trouble with a lot of mouths to feed before they're ready. Still, the babies here are absolutely adorable and most of these young couples look really happy. Sweet. But, I still wondered how girls in more unfortunate situations handled their unplanned pregnancy. I asked my friend Jonathan what they did, and he rolled his eyes and attempted to explain that they would have to go to a "witch" to obtain an illegal abortion, and that many girls end up in the hospital or even die because of unsafe and unsanitary conditions, and if they go to a hospital they face legal prosecution. Wtf???? First of all, what exactly did he mean by witch? (turns out he couldn't think of a better translation and just said that to mean old scary lady, like a mid-wife or something). Second of all, not only do these girls obtain illegal and unsafe abortions, they risk going to jail for seeking legitimate medical help afterward, and so many don't even go, and end up dying or seriously messing up their bodies. Sad. So I could rant about this for awhile, but I guess I shouldn't impose my views of women's rights on other cultures...
Anyway, so that's enough about that. Somehow though, my romantic notions of the "Latin Lover" are shattered. But I don't need to be treated like a princess; being treated like an equal is just fine, thanks.
*disclaimer: really though, not all guys are like that here, I've met some really great ones who do respect women
*sorry this was a long post
Since I've been posting really freaking long essays lately, I'm going to break down the dynamics of gender relations here in BsAs (from my observations)
-guys from other countries in Latin America (ahem, Venezuela) claim that Porteños are not your stereotypical "Latin Lovers" for these reasons:
-they're direct and up front about what they want (ie, if they see a hot girl in a club they're not going to waste time trying to "romance" her, they're just going to be like, "hey, come home with me"
-they don't really romance girls at all...they either pick up chicks at clubs (and go to sleezy hotels) or have sullen girlfriends that they seem to fight with/passionately make out with all the time
-these same Venezuelans claimed that Porteña girls go crazy over them because they perceive them to be the real so-called Latin lovers, because guys from BsAs are just, like, "so European" about it
I was NOT having it. Get lost, boludo.
-the Public Displays of Affection here are out of control-everywhere you look someone is sucking face...teenagers, couples on dates, old people...Anyway, at first it takes some getting used to, because hard-core making out in public back in the States is pretty much frowned upon (read, trashy). Maybe it's a subconscious act of liberation from years of sexually repressed society, or the fact that most young people still live with their parents and they don't have anywhere else to do it, or, they just want a little sugar/like to express their love all the time. Ok, I get that, no problem. But on the colectivo? Or in the sweaty subway during rush hour? Ew. Stop.
-Speaking of ew, men here definitely make it no secret if they think you're attractive. I'm not talking about just in clubs: on the streets, in the subte's, they'll make sure you know you're cute. But the thing is, when they whistle or say things like "preciosa!" or "que linda" or even "I'm going to think about you the rest of the day" (haha true story), they really mean no harm. Graciela says we should take it as a compliment. Uh...thanks? But she also said if they say offensive things, like call you a "puta" or something, then you should just ignore them and resist the urge to tell them to "andate a la mierda" (ie go fuck yourself, ahem, sorry mom). Speaking back will only encourage them. So I guess a little compliment from some rando on the street is nice every now and then, but sometimes I can't help but feel objectified (not that I get a lot of dudes trying to holla, jeez, but, many of my friends get lots of unwanted attention)
-ok, last one. This one's a little heavy: the A-word. Surprisingly, abortion's illegal here. Actually, maybe not so surprisingly. It is after all, a Catholic country. Still, with all the supposed sexual/social liberation I'm a little curious as to why Argentina hasn't lead the way in women's rights in Latin America. Looking around the streets on a typical day, there seem to be an abnormal amount of young mothers (and I mean young, early 20's) with a couple of kids in tow. Young dads too. While that's cute and all, Graciela explained to me that people aren't very smart about their sexuality (using birth control, etc) and so these young women end up getting pregnant before they've finished school, gotten jobs, or even moved out of their parents'. So the young couples could end up in a lot of trouble with a lot of mouths to feed before they're ready. Still, the babies here are absolutely adorable and most of these young couples look really happy. Sweet. But, I still wondered how girls in more unfortunate situations handled their unplanned pregnancy. I asked my friend Jonathan what they did, and he rolled his eyes and attempted to explain that they would have to go to a "witch" to obtain an illegal abortion, and that many girls end up in the hospital or even die because of unsafe and unsanitary conditions, and if they go to a hospital they face legal prosecution. Wtf???? First of all, what exactly did he mean by witch? (turns out he couldn't think of a better translation and just said that to mean old scary lady, like a mid-wife or something). Second of all, not only do these girls obtain illegal and unsafe abortions, they risk going to jail for seeking legitimate medical help afterward, and so many don't even go, and end up dying or seriously messing up their bodies. Sad. So I could rant about this for awhile, but I guess I shouldn't impose my views of women's rights on other cultures...
Anyway, so that's enough about that. Somehow though, my romantic notions of the "Latin Lover" are shattered. But I don't need to be treated like a princess; being treated like an equal is just fine, thanks.
*disclaimer: really though, not all guys are like that here, I've met some really great ones who do respect women
*sorry this was a long post
A mitad de camino
"You hear that sound? You're gonna remember that for the rest of your life. It's the song of the knife-sharpener."
-Jonathan
So I've been here for about 2 1/2 months, which means that in exactly 2 1/2 months, I'll be leaving Buenos Aires, and, hundreds of pesos, endless new friends, way too many empanadas, and a handful of weekends of all-night hedonism later, I'm still not sure that I've come to know Buenos Aires as well as I thought I would. Borges once wrote, "And the city now, is like a map of my humiliations and failures." My feels an affinity for these words in the sound of my boots on the pavement at night, the piles of empty sugar packets next to yet another cup of coffee at el Potosi, my face reflecting in the window of the 141 during my morning bus ride to the villas. Most of my time here is spent alone: eating breakfast, walking, or sitting in my favorite cafe doing homework and listening to tapes. Sometimes I prefer to be alone in a city, weaving seamlessly in and out of the endless flow of humanity, when I can really feel that sense that Buenos Aires is as "eternal as water and air." Other times, when I'm staring out my window at night looking out at the city, I feel so overwhelmed by it's vastness, this living, breathing energy that I'm not a part of. What are these millions of people doing right now, at this moment, while I'm sipping a cafe con leche in a tiny cafe on a quiet street corner in the north part of the city? All the people I've met, or have yet to meet, or will never meet, are going about their lives, part of the endless flow of actions and words and change. It's hard to say what "experiencing" Buenos Aires really is--clubbing 'til dawn or visiting monuments? Dining at parillas or seeing a tango show or buying leather knick-knacks? Maybe so, and maybe I've missed these things in search of something else, that human contact that I'm starting to miss. I think the closest thing to the inside was my friendship with a half-French half-Porteño vago who promised he'd show me the "real Buenos Aires." But after two months of dancing and eating and drinking and sleeping in parks and wandering aimlessly and talking to people, I wonder can I really say that I know another side to the city? Could I ever? And I'm left with strange, somewhat saddening memories of awkward silences, falling leaves, streets, sunshine and rooftops and early mornings and sitting in doorways and the song of the knife sharpener. No fairy tale there, just reality. And there you go, maybe that's it: just the reality of living here, of having nothing to do, of wasting time and smoking too many cigarettes, and saying and doing all the wrong things, and losing things in translation, that constitutes the real Buenos Aires. "Welcome to South America honey," he always says to me, when I ask yet another question about why things are the way they are here. And I think now I can accept that as an answer, because maybe that's his way of saying that he can't explain it either.
-Jonathan
So I've been here for about 2 1/2 months, which means that in exactly 2 1/2 months, I'll be leaving Buenos Aires, and, hundreds of pesos, endless new friends, way too many empanadas, and a handful of weekends of all-night hedonism later, I'm still not sure that I've come to know Buenos Aires as well as I thought I would. Borges once wrote, "And the city now, is like a map of my humiliations and failures." My feels an affinity for these words in the sound of my boots on the pavement at night, the piles of empty sugar packets next to yet another cup of coffee at el Potosi, my face reflecting in the window of the 141 during my morning bus ride to the villas. Most of my time here is spent alone: eating breakfast, walking, or sitting in my favorite cafe doing homework and listening to tapes. Sometimes I prefer to be alone in a city, weaving seamlessly in and out of the endless flow of humanity, when I can really feel that sense that Buenos Aires is as "eternal as water and air." Other times, when I'm staring out my window at night looking out at the city, I feel so overwhelmed by it's vastness, this living, breathing energy that I'm not a part of. What are these millions of people doing right now, at this moment, while I'm sipping a cafe con leche in a tiny cafe on a quiet street corner in the north part of the city? All the people I've met, or have yet to meet, or will never meet, are going about their lives, part of the endless flow of actions and words and change. It's hard to say what "experiencing" Buenos Aires really is--clubbing 'til dawn or visiting monuments? Dining at parillas or seeing a tango show or buying leather knick-knacks? Maybe so, and maybe I've missed these things in search of something else, that human contact that I'm starting to miss. I think the closest thing to the inside was my friendship with a half-French half-Porteño vago who promised he'd show me the "real Buenos Aires." But after two months of dancing and eating and drinking and sleeping in parks and wandering aimlessly and talking to people, I wonder can I really say that I know another side to the city? Could I ever? And I'm left with strange, somewhat saddening memories of awkward silences, falling leaves, streets, sunshine and rooftops and early mornings and sitting in doorways and the song of the knife sharpener. No fairy tale there, just reality. And there you go, maybe that's it: just the reality of living here, of having nothing to do, of wasting time and smoking too many cigarettes, and saying and doing all the wrong things, and losing things in translation, that constitutes the real Buenos Aires. "Welcome to South America honey," he always says to me, when I ask yet another question about why things are the way they are here. And I think now I can accept that as an answer, because maybe that's his way of saying that he can't explain it either.
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